Find Them Dead

by Peter James

  ‘You really are sick, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just a realist, matey. You’ll get there one day, after you’ve dealt with as many shitbags as I have. Keep me posted. Want me to send him a get well soon note?’

  ‘What a lovely gesture, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.’

  ‘So long as he can read it.’

  45

  Monday 13 May

  Meg sat in her place on the wooden front row seat in the jury box, with tired eyes from two virtually sleepless nights.

  The jurors had bundles of documents in front of them, with coloured, marked tabs sticking out. There was one bundle between two.

  She looked up at the packed public gallery, where several people seemed to be staring at her and her fellow jurors, then at the defendant seated in the glassed-in dock, with a guard beside him. As she watched him, Gready suddenly looked straight in her direction. Was it her imagination or did he catch her eye?

  She shivered. Had his henchmen already got the message to him? Juror no. 3, she’s your pal, she’s your get-out-of-jail-free card?

  Quickly glancing away, she focused on the two rows of lawyers, some wigged and gowned, trying to work out which was the prosecution and which the defence. Several people sat in the press box over the far side. The judge was seated; she could see the top of his shiny blue chair, and the stalk of the black microphone on his bench, alongside a laptop, video monitor and conference telephone. The royal coat of arms, fixed high on the wall behind his seat, was a reminder of the gravitas of this place.

  She felt nauseous. It was daunting being here, actually being part of these proceedings rather than a mere spectator. And not just part of it. Clandestinely taking control of it. Pulling the strings. Perverting the course of justice – if she had the strength; courage; ability. Everything felt so overwhelmingly real and purposeful. And powerful. Crown Court. A criminal trial presided over by a senior judge. It didn’t get any more serious than this.

  There was an air of expectancy, everyone waiting for the drama to unfold. But there was no curtain about to rise, no lights about to dim for a movie to start. This was real, Meg was thinking. This was about the law of the land, a blunt iron fist under which human beings could be deprived of their liberty for years – sometimes even forever.

  The enormity of what she had to do had been sinking in gradually over the past day and a half. She knew she had to do what they had told her; she had the burner phone on her at all times. Her eyes were raw and her brain foggy and she was struggling to even think straight. But she had to. Had to hold it together for Laura. The biggest question she had been churning over relentlessly in her mind ever since that phone call was whether the man’s threat was real or a big bluff.

  But no way could she gamble with Laura’s life by risking calling it – in case it wasn’t.

  She had few other options. She could send a note to the judge, as he had instructed them last week, or go to the police to see if the British Embassy in Ecuador could intervene and helicopter Laura out of trouble and bring her home.

  But at what risk to her daughter with either?

  If you try to get a message to the judge, or tell your fellow jurors, or alert anyone who could get the trial stopped, then I’m afraid it’s game over for little Laura.

  The most convincing evidence that he had not been bluffing was the photographs. The one at the Equator and the one outside the hacienda. Later on Saturday, Laura had sent her an almost identical photograph of her and Cassie – plus two more – on WhatsApp, as well as posting them on Instagram. These photos had clearly been taken with their consent. All smiles into the camera.

  Meg’s attempt to debug the house yesterday – if indeed it was bugged at all – had not gone well. She found a ton of stuff on electronic surveillance devices on the internet, and watched several YouTube videos on how to detect them. Many of the latest bugging devices were almost microscopic in size, barely even visible to the untrained human eye. There was a range of detectors, at an affordable price, but the fastest delivery any were offering was two days. So instead, in the early hours of yesterday, she’d begun her own search, using the assortment of tools in Nick’s box and beginning with the most obvious places.

  She removed the covers of the smoke detectors in each room, checking inside before replacing them; similarly the light fittings and all the electrical sockets and plugs. But after two hours, she’d started to realize the hopelessness of her task. She wasn’t tech-savvy enough to risk opening her computer, phone or the phone they had given her – and she wouldn’t have had a clue what to look for if she did.

  There could be something concealed in one of the televisions, in the speakers in the ceiling, inside a radiator or in so many other potential hiding places. She’d seen bugs online that were even disguised as small pieces of electrical flex and computer cables. Some extra-powerful ones didn’t need to be in the house at all but could pick up conversations from outside in the garden. They could be hidden behind vents in her car. Anywhere.

  She’d had some respite later in the day, when she was coaxed out of the house by her best friend, Alison Stevens, to share a picnic with her on the beach. They’d sat in glorious sunshine, demolishing a bottle of cold Sauvignon Blanc. Several times during the afternoon, the more the alcohol kicked in, she’d been increasingly tempted to confide in Ali.

  Despite Alison constantly asking her what was wrong, sensing that something was clearly troubling her, Meg said nothing about the situation, not wanting to put her friend’s life at risk.

  You tell any friend or go to the authorities and you will find them dead.

  She thought about the indictments Terence Gready faced. These weren’t for parking infringements or shoplifting, or some other kind of minor misdemeanour. He was in the dock accused of being a drug dealer on an organized-crime scale – a criminal mastermind.

  While they were closeted in the jury room last week, the retired cop, Roberts, had helpfully and somewhat gleefully informed his fellow jurors what the sentences could be for each of the counts if Gready was found guilty. And it was very clear to Meg from the way he spoke that he’d already made up his mind that the defendant was guilty of the entire lot, and faced being locked up and having the key thrown away.

  Not a happy prospect for a man at the still relatively young age of fifty-five, who might not see the outside of a prison again until he was a septuagenarian – if he lived that long. A mobster with a criminal empire, with everything to lose, would surely do everything he could to stay free, wouldn’t he?

  Although the judge had expressly instructed the jurors not to google the defendant, Meg was so terrified about the situation that she had gone to Brighton Library and done so, anonymously, on one of their computers. But there was not much to interest her about him. Just the name of his law firm. He did not appear to have ever had any social media engagement. She found a few bits relating to his personal life. He had a wife and three children. There was an article showing him and his family at a charity event and a lifestyle piece in the local paper about his wife’s interest in orchids. She appeared to be some sort of expert on them.

  Had he deliberately spent years under the radar, or could they possibly have arrested the wrong person? Was it wishful thinking, that they had an entirely innocent man, she wondered? Or the new mindset she was going to have to adopt?

  Two loud knocks as loud as gunshots startled her out of her thoughts. They were followed by a stentorian command.

  ‘The court is in session!’

  46

  Monday 13 May

  Richard Jupp took some moments to adjust the mic in front of him, then the position of his water glass. Continuing to take his time, as if in doing so he was further asserting both his stamp of authority and his power over his domain, he peered around, observing who was here and staring for quite some while at the jury, to Meg’s discomfort. ‘I want to apologize that you have been kept waiting for this trial to begin properly until this morning. The reason for th
is is that I had to deal with a number of legal and evidential issues that needed to be discussed without you present. These have now been resolved and the trial can start.’

  He paused for a few seconds, then went on. ‘Members of the jury, you may have seen in the media over the weekend reports regarding the tragic death of a man called Stuie Starr. I can tell you he is the brother of the co-defendant in this case, Michael Starr. You should not take any account of what you have read during this trial or when you make your deliberations. You will not discuss anything about this amongst yourselves or in the jury room.’

  He then nodded at the prosecuting counsel. ‘Mr Cork, you may proceed.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ Stephen Cork said very formally and gravely, rising to his feet and turning to the jury, and, as he did so, turning on the charm.

  A slim man in his fifties, with horn-rimmed glasses which, combined with his wig and gown, gave him a distinctly learned look, he appeared completely at home in the grandeur – and formality – of this room. He exuded all the confidence of a lion in its natural habitat confidently stalking its prey. He leaned towards the jurors, addressing them in a warm and friendly tone. There was nothing patronizing about his manner, it was more in the style of a compere at the start of a stage variety performance.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case is about conspiracy to smuggle and distribute millions of pounds’ worth of cocaine. My name is Stephen Cork and I will be presenting the case for the prosecution. I will be assisted by my learned friend, Mr Paul Williams.’ He turned briefly to look at the defence counsel, a wigged and gowned woman seated close by. ‘My learned friend Primrose Brown QC appears for the defendant, Terence Gready, assisted by Mr Crispin Sykes.’

  He turned back to the jury, all smiles, theatrically removing his glasses, momentarily, so they could all see his kindly eyes, then replacing them. ‘Before we come to the evidence, it is my task to give you an outline of the prosecution case.’

  He glanced down at the bundle of notes in front of him, then back up at the jury. ‘The counts you have heard represent conspiracy to import and distribute significant quantities of a Class-A drug. This first charge relates to conspiracy to import into the country drugs worth, at street level, up to six million pounds.’

  He paused again, removed his glasses once more and then looked profoundly apologetic. ‘I’m afraid you may hear some rather disturbing information during the course of this trial, but I will endeavour to ensure that you only see what is strictly necessary in helping you to arrive at your decisions.’

  He replaced his glasses. ‘Nearly six million pounds’ worth of cocaine weighs over 160 kilos. The method of importing it cannot be via a drugs mule or postal system. Something far more sophisticated must be deployed. Such as a 1962 Ferrari car. At approximately 4 a.m. on Monday November 26th of last year, such a car arrived on the Côte D’Albâtre ferry, transported in an enclosed car trailer from Dieppe to the Port of Newhaven. Nothing unusual about that.’ He smiled again. His trust me, I’m on your side smile.

  ‘You have before you a folder of documents. The counts on the indictment are behind Tab D. If you turn to Tab F of the bundle you will see a photograph of that car. You may know something about cars or not, but for this case, you do not need to know anything. The essential point is that, as with much of this case, not everything is as it seems. A genuine Ferrari of this type would be worth in the region of five to ten million pounds.’

  Cork paused to let that fact sink in. ‘It may therefore be inferred that the last thing anyone would do is tear it apart and use it as a Trojan Horse, cramming as many packages of cocaine into every available nook and cranny. But that is exactly what was done. Because this car is a fake. It was designed to closely resemble a 1962 classic. But it is actually a confection of fibreglass laid on the chassis of a VW Beetle.’

  He removed his glasses again and smiled at the jurors, as if to say, I know, incredible, I’m with you on that!

  ‘Rather fortuitously, the Border Force officer on duty had a particular specialist interest in classic cars. And unlike the Trojan Horse, there was no one to persuade him that everything was fine, or to allay his suspicions. If you could turn to Tab Z, please.’ He waited while they all did so, the rustle of pages turning the only sound in the courtroom for a brief while. Each folder was shared between two jurors. Meg shared hers with Maisy Waller.

  ‘There you will see images of the drugs in situ, and gradually being removed. This took some time.’ He smiled again, waiting for them to study the photographs.

  ‘None of this is in dispute,’ he went on. ‘We know when the fake Ferrari arrived, we know where it was loaded, we know the weight and value of the drugs. The question you need to consider, and the answer you need to be sure of is this: to whom did the drugs belong? We will ask you to be patient when we call the evidence of ownership, it is complex – and we say deliberately so. There are a number of shell companies and offshore holdings used to muddy the waters. The prosecution will call experts to help you navigate through them. But having done so, you will see there is clear evidence that the car and drugs were ultimately owned by the defendant, Terence Gready.’

  Again, he smiled at the jurors. ‘I appreciate that what I’ve told you might sound a little dry, so I’m going to give you a flavour of what happened in the Port of Newhaven Customs shed at approximately 4.30 a.m. on Monday November 26th last year.’

  He stated in detail the events that unfolded leading up to the search of the Ferrari.

  Cork gave the jurors a theatrical gesture of shock with his arms. ‘But in the early stages of the examination of the vehicle, after suspicious packages were found concealed inside the car’s spare tyre, Michael Starr assaulted the Border Force officer by punching him in the face and breaking his glasses, as well as assaulting a second officer, and then ran off.’ He looked around the court, pausing for a moment. ‘You will hear shortly afterwards he was detained by the police, hardly The Great Escape!’

  The jurors looked among themselves, unsure at this early stage if they should laugh. Meg glanced at the judge, who was not smiling.

  Jupp, his voice heavily laced with sarcasm, said, ‘Mr Cork, I’d be grateful if you could reserve your jokes for when you are at the other kind of bar.’

  Cork momentarily turned towards him. ‘I apologize, Your Honour, it just slipped out. It won’t happen again.’

  As he turned back towards the jury, Meg watched the prosecutor’s face closely. There was something very measured about the man. She didn’t think he was the kind of person who would let anything just slip out. Everything he said would be for a reason. The joke, which he must have known would bring a reprimand, was clever. He was trying to win the jury over by showing them he was a regular guy beneath his wig and gown, that he had a good sense of humour. And she realized what he had just so cleverly done. By getting the big bad judge to chastise him for a seemingly harmless joke, he had got most of the jury on his side.

  Cork continued. ‘The details of that run for freedom are that Starr made his move, two police officers attempted to apprehend him a short distance on and he assaulted both of them with a wheel brace, before hijacking a car and escaping. Following a high-speed pursuit, Starr was subsequently stopped and arrested just over an hour later.’ He paused again, glad to see that he had a reasonably attentive jury.

  ‘One important thing I would like you all to bear in mind is that throughout his interviews with the police, the defendant, Terence Gready, has strenuously denied that he had any connection with Mr Starr. He has denied that he had any knowledge of the classic car company, LH Classics, which had employed Mr Starr for nearly sixteen years. He has denied that at any time he has ever met Mr Starr. During the course of this trial I will be endeavouring to prove to you that not only had the defendant met Mr Starr, but that he actually employed Mr Starr! And to give you a further flavour of the denial by the defendant of having any knowledge of Mr Starr, I will be showing CCTV images of S
tarr actually entering the offices of Terence Gready, from which you can draw your own conclusions.

  ‘The two men worked together through a very cleverly set up chain of shell companies around the globe established for one reason and for one reason only, which was to put as much distance as possible between himself and LH Classics in an attempt to hide from the authorities the fact that he did actually own one hundred per cent of this company himself. And you will also hear about evidence seized by the police linking the defendant with Michael Starr and again you will be able to draw your own conclusions.’

  Once more, Cork looked at the jury. ‘I suggest that the defendant, Terence Gready, who purports to the outside world to be a simple legal aid solicitor, is in fact an immensely cunning and dangerous man, the criminal mastermind behind a vast and highly lucrative major drugs importation business. We will show that for many years he has been methodically distributing Class-A drugs within Sussex. More recently that drugs network has been modelled on the so-called county lines drug supply network.

  ‘During the course of this trial I will endeavour to show you just how clever Terence Gready has been, and just how far-reaching the network of dealers he controls really is.’ He paused again.

  ‘However much you may have heard or read about the drug cocaine, it is classified as a Class-A drug and therefore I cannot overestimate the seriousness of this crime. Of course, if you are not sure on any of these counts, you must acquit. The learned judge will give you directions on the law in due course, but you may already know the prosecution brings this case and it is for the prosecution to prove each charge. The defendant does not have to prove anything. And for the prosecution to prove its case, you must be satisfied on the evidence so that you are sure of the defendant’s guilt and that he committed the acts described.’

  Cork made eye contact again with the jury. Meg felt a shiver as his eyes bored into hers.